


Game Six

by Fourthlinewinger



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Gen, but not as happy as these two kids, fluff and fluff and more fluff, here there be hugging, round 2 game six, the washington capitals are in the eastern conference finals and i'm really happy about it, this could technically be considered pre-relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 04:42:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14709284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fourthlinewinger/pseuds/Fourthlinewinger
Summary: Ovi’s face breaks into a grin, the deep lines and tension shattering as though they had never existed. “Good!” he says, fierce and prideful. His faith buoys Nicke like a brace on a fractured hand. He believes, again, that they will move forward. He and Ovi are going to end this curse together. “We got this. We gonna win, Backy.”





	Game Six

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks for [ErinKatz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErinKatz/pseuds/ErinKatz) who betaed this at the last minute and kept me from mixing my tenses too badly.
> 
> The working title for this document was ThatHUG because it was magical and I loved it and it made me cry and want to commemorate it in 3000 words of loving detail.

“You gonna play?” Ovi asks, blue eyes intense and focused and _worried_ , as he stares Nicke down. He’s leaning against his car like he decided that the parking lot is the appropriate place for this discussion, and he’s been waiting for Nicke to turn up. At least he isn’t looking at Nicke’s hand. The thick bandage feels obvious, and Nicke wishes he could tuck his injury away, slide his fist into the pocket of his hoodie so no one can see any weakness. Even if he is capable of hiding from Ovi, though, he needs to save every scrap of movement for tonight. Ovi’s frown deepens, as though he can sense Nicke’s thoughts, and his eyes narrow.

It’s not like Nicke can blame Ovi for being concerned, but he scowls anyway and goes to get his luggage out of his own car. “Yes, of course, yes,” he says, and slams the door shut. Third time’s the charm, be it for convincing himself he’ll be able to hold a stick tonight or playing the Penguins in the second round. He has to play. It’s not an elimination game, not for Washington, but if Nicke has to face another game seven he might spear Crosby in the balls.

“If you need time,” Ovi says, grabbing Nicke’s luggage in his free hand. For once he’s got a suitcase of his own and he balances the two bags easily instead of getting them tangled up behind him. Nicke falls into step at his side. “If you need time, you stay in press box. Make Willy and Burky fetch and carry.”

“I’ll make the boys fetch and carry anyway,” Nicke says, half amused and half insulted. “I’m going to play.” It’s easier to say this time, as though he needs that permission to not be well enough to play in order to feel like he will be well enough to play. The fear that has been creeping up his spine ebbs like the tide. A couple of shots before the game will take care of the swelling and the sharpest pains, and he’ll be fine on the ice.

Ovi’s face breaks into a grin, the deep lines and tension shattering as though they had never existed. “Good!” he says, fierce and prideful. His faith buoys Nicke like a brace on a fractured hand. He believes, again, that they will move forward. He and Ovi are going to end this curse together. “We got this. We gonna win, Backy.”

“Fuck yes,” Nicke says, grinning up at Ovi and feeling okay for the first time since the puck hit his hand. He does know, he can feel it, _they are going to win_. Their fucking decade long tragedy is over.

* * *

Nicke makes it about an hour after checking into the hotel before he tracks the trainers down. They’ve taken over a room for medical care: ice packs and cortisone shots and fluids for rehydration. It looks like it’s a hastily cleared conference room: there’s a single chair in the corner that’s being used as a table, networking cables are taped down with athletic tape so no one will trip over them, and a whiteboard on the wall has ‘conflict resolution’ printed at the top and a mess of puck drop times and medical jargon scribbled below.

Kuzy is on a portable massage table, getting his back worked on by Billie when Nick slinks in. His eyes are closed and he’s breathing deeply while Billie pounds away at his trapezius.

Taylor says, “Oh, hey Nick, you’re early,” and Kuzy’s eyes fly open and he turns his head inquirily.

Billie pushes him back into place with a quick, “Relax,” only briefly pause in the massage. 

Kuzy wiggles his eyebrows at Nicky before submitting. “Everything good?”

Nicke focuses on Taylor and holds out his hand. “I think the pressure changes from the flight made it swell up again.” He’s adjusted the bandages once already, but it’s been a couple hours and now they are too tight.

Taylor frowns and tugs him over to one of the big lights they cart around on the road so he can get a better look at Nicke’s hand. “It’s definitely swelling up again,” he says as he carefully strips the bandage.

Nicke bites his tongue to keep from making a sound.

Taylor glances up at Nicke’s face, shakes his head at Nicke’s stubborn silence, and studies Nicke’s damaged hand. He presses gently down on the edges of the bruising, and Nicke flinches. “Easy, I’m just checking the bones.” He’s careful, but very thorough, and by time he’s done Nicke’s had second and third thoughts about how good of an idea it was to stop in before his scheduled appointment. Maybe the swelling would have gone down on it’s own. “Well I don’t think the fracture moved at all. I’ll give you a shot for the swelling and wrap it up again.” He steps back from Nicke to grab his tablet and make some notes. “I’ll include something to help you sleep.”

“He good to go tomorrow?” Kuzy speaks before Nicke can ask if he’s still cleared to play. He’s raised himself up onto his elbow so he can glance between Taylor and Nicke.

Nicke nods. “Of course,” he says quickly. There’s no way he’s going to let Ovi carry this game on his shoulders. He will fill his skates with broken glass and still go out on the ice tomorrow if that is what it will take.

“Stop worrying about Nick, you’ll undo all my hard word,” Billie gripes, poking Kuzy in the shoulder until he lays down again.

“Good,” Kuzy says to Nicke, more muffled with his head turned away.

“As long as the swelling goes down and stays down,” Taylor interjects. “And the fracture is stable. And whatever they’re doing to your glove will give you enough protection. I’ll take another look before morning skate tomorrow and we’ll make a final decision then.”

It’s a lot of stipulations, but Nicke is confident things will be well enough in the morning. There is no question in his mind. He smiles at Taylor while Taylor prepares the shot. “Thanks.”

Taylor shakes his head as he injects the syringe into Nicke’s hand. “This is a long series,” he warns. “We want to make sure you’re around for Tampa, too, and not in surgery because you went back out there too soon. Take these before you sleep, don’t be a tough guy.” He gives Nicke a couple pills in a small plastic bag.

Nicke takes the pills in his left hand and slips them in his pocket. His right hand is already feeling cooler, and the throbbing pulse in his thumb has started to settle. He twitches his fingers experimentally. The motion still hurts, but he thinks it hurts less. Taylor grabs the tape and begins bandaging his hand back up.

“I’ll be ready,” Nicke vows. He’ll take the pills and be on the ice in the morning. He isn’t worried at all.

* * *

He should have been worried.

He’s not on allowed out the ice for morning skate, though the bruising feels better and he assures Ovi that he’s good to go at breakfast. 

When Taylor inspects Nicke’s hand one last time before they all head to the arena, he shakes his head. “Not today.” He makes another note on his tablet. “We’ll be back in Arlington tomorrow, and I’ll take another look, but it’s just not ready.” Taylor is sympathetic but firm, and Nicke is both aware that he’s right and desperate for a different answer.

“If it were Game 7, would I be good enough to play?” Nicke asks pettily.

Taylor gives him more anti-inflammatories. “It’s a good thing we won’t find out.”

So Walks gets into the lineup and Nicke gets more drugs. Nicke puts on his suit and beanie and accidentally knocks his hand into the wall. It takes five minutes for the pain to calm to a manageable level, and he ends up barely making the bus to the arena. He drops down beside Orpy just behind the coaches. Even though he has to sit here because his normal spots with Nisky or Ovi or Beags are all taken, it turns out to be the right decision: Orpy doesn’t comment on the game or Nicke’s hand, and instead updates Nicke on what his kids have been getting up to these past couple weeks. It gives Nicke something else to focus on. It gives Nicke time to figure out what to say to Ovi.

Nicke has spent so much of this last year angry, at hockey and the league and Kadri and Ovi, always Ovi, who wears the team’s successes and failures as though they are his alone. Nicke should know better, has always known better, has maybe only ever been mad at himself, but Ovi took Nicke’s anger at the start of the season and carried it the way he had taken that damned hit and carried forward. It feels like their own bitter symmetry keeps Nicke out of play now. He needs to apologize, again; he needs to tell Ovi that no matter the outcome they have another hockey game to play and Nicke won’t give up, he’ll be there.

He has to tell Ovi that he knows Ovi can get this win without him.

Nicke walks to the locker room with the team, watching everyone bounce and banter and get game ready. Willy and Devo are talking to Walks while Walks looks torn between panicking and floating up to the ceiling with happiness. Kuzy is teasing a furiously blushing V, leaning in close with his hand on V’s bicep. Mads is doing a complicated handshake with Juicer and looking more nervous in his suit than Juicer does in his pads. Holts and Grubi are performing their zen goalie rituals and will probably disappear into the labyrinthine halls of the arena for privacy in only a moment.

Lar is sitting in his stall staring at his phone, so Nicke stops looking for Ovi and heads over, nodding at Orpy to say he’ll deal with it. Orpy nods back and turns to check on Kemper.

“Hey,” Nicke says, sitting down next to Lar’s stall and setting his hand carefully in his lap. “You seem nervous.”

Lar actually startles, which he hasn’t done since the first month of his first season with the Caps, and Nicke’s smile fades.

“Hey,” Nicke repeats, “You don’t need to be nervous.”

Lar has the best bitchface on the team, hands down, and he levels it at Nicke. “I’m not nervous.”

“No,” Nicke says immediately. “You’re our second line center.”

Lar wrinkles his nose, torn between laughter and offense. “That was terrible. Even Batya wouldn’t try that line.”

“Really? I thought it was pretty good,” Nicke is trying to keep a straight face, but the corners of his mouth are quivering. “You aren’t doing anything different. You know how to play hockey. You know how to run a power play. Don’t worry about the offense, just hem them in and keep the pressure up.”

“I know,” Lar says. He looks at his phone again, where a picture of his daughter dressed in a dark jacket and red Capitals shirt is beaming and waving at him. “I’ll get this done, Nicke,” he finally says. “Let’s go to Tampa.”

“We don’t have any pressure,” Nicke reminds Lar. “The fucking Pens are the ones who can screw everything up tonight. You got this, Tiger.”

Lar grins like the giant cat he is, the lines a little easier around his eyes, and they shake on it before Lar goes to wrangle V and Osh for a last minutes liney conference. Nicke tries to take some of the assurance he gave Lar with him as he looks around for Ovi. It’s almost time to head up to the box. He still has too much to say.

And then Ovi is there at his side, a hulking giant in his skates with the bluest eyes and a kind of fearlessness Nicke can almost touch. He doesn’t look worried or nervous or like they’re going to play a desperate Pittsburgh team again with half the top six gone and Walks making his debut and a hostile crowd. He looks calm and joyful as he smiles down at Nicke. Nicke’s good hand fists in Ovi’s jersey.

“You’ll win this,” Nicke tries to command. He clears his throat and tries again. “You’ll win this. Alex, you’ve got this.”

Ovi fucking grins, the fucker. “I’m not gonna screw up just cause you not here to bail me out.” The corners of his eyes crinkle with humor. He isn’t wearing his gloves, and he curls his hand around Nicke’s right bicep, thumb rubbing gentle circles like Nicke needs to be soothed.

“I know,” Nicke says, fierce.

Ovi holds out his fist. Nicke manages to curl his fingers enough so they can do their usual fistbump, knuckles touching gently, so gently, and it still hurts like a motherfucker. It’s worth it.

“Kick their fucking ass and make Crosby cry,” Nicke says.

“You be ready to play in Tampa,” Ovi returns, and then he spins around and stalks out, leaving the room empty, even with thirty odd people still getting ready. He pulls the rest of the team with him as he goes, all of them helpless in his wake, all of them going to play and leaving Nicke behind. Lar catches his eye and mouths ‘ _I’ll take care of him for you_ ’ even though they’re on different lines entirely, and then he’s gone. The team is hooting and hollering in the hall, and Nicke is suddenly alone.

Then Burky’s arm wraps around his neck and Willy is demanding that they get to the suite and Nicke is suddenly steady as they join the black aces and go watch their team kick ass. He isn’t worried at all.

* * *

If it was possible to actually teleport onto the ice from the black aces’ box, Nicke would be in the middle of the goal hug, screaming praise and obscenities as unintelligibly as he knows the boys on the ice are. Instead, while his team falls together in euphoric piles of sweaty pads and beaming smiles, while Lar pulls Ovi into the group, while they scream and bounce in front of twenty thousand yellow-clad fans, Nicke is stuck watching from the sidelines. He catches Burky’s tackling hug and stares down at his boys on the ice with pride, joy, and desperation to be a part of the celebration.

Nicke bolts from the suite as soon as Burky lets go of him, racing for the elevator. The car takes more than a moment to arrive and he can’t slow down enough to wait for it, so he turns a corner and takes the stairs. He doesn’t remember the run to the locker room, just the need to get to the tunnel before the team gets out of the handshake line. He needs to be there. The executives are probably still congratulating each other high above the ice when Nicke makes it to the tunnel to wait for the team to finish celebrating, finish the handshake line, finish Pittsburgh and come home.

Chaser comes through first, and Nicke throws his good arm around Chaser’s neck and hugs him. Chaser is vibrating and bright with happiness, crowing “we did it we did it fuck yeah boys let’s go to Florida!” before Willy grabs him and exuberantly smashes Chaser’s face into Willy’s collar. The rest of the team trickles in after, and everything is just a mess of wordless whooping and secret handshakes and back breaking hugs. Lar picks Nicke up, still wearing his skates, and spins him around while cackling.

“Fucking best center!” Nicke is screaming and Lar is screaming back.

Things start to calm down when Trotzy makes it in, and the team starts to drift to their stalls to strip out of their gear. Nicke can’t focus on what Trotz is saying; now that he has a moment to think, he can’t find Ovi anywhere.

For a heartstopping moment, he wonders if Ovi took a bad hit and is in the back with the trainers, but Osh catches him looking around.

“He’s got media,” Osh says, beaming. “He and Kuzy both. Fucking beautiful goal. Fucking beautiful pass. Fucking Russians making all of us look bad.” He’s scrubbing his knuckles on Dima’s skull and Dima is laughing too hard to protest.

Kuzy comes in and Willy nearly takes him off his feet with how fast and hard he hugs him. Nicky finds himself standing at Ovi’s stall while Kuzy giggles and tries to get everyone to stop ruffling his hair and calling him Harry Potter. Kuzy’s locker is beside Ovi’s, so when he manages to disentangle himself, Nicke can smush his cheeks and call him fucking beautiful.

Kuzy giggles again and presses a sloppy kiss to Nicke’s cheek. “We gonna go so far,” he says.

Nicke feels like he might burst out of his skin with how proud and happy he is. The third round. He’s finally there. They made it without him, he didn’t ruin their chances, and they have a chance to win and a chance is all he needs.

The Washington Capitals are going to the Eastern Conference Finals.

Eleven fucking years, Nicke thinks, and then his attention snaps to the tunnel. Everyone else looks, too, because they hear it: joyful and triumphant, Ovi is roaring on his way toward them. Nicke isn't surprised by the sound or the way it bursts from Ovi, like Ovi’s body isn’t enough to contain so much happiness. Ovi is better suited for joy than anyone Nicke knows, but even he can barely contain his euphoria in this moment. He walks into the room overflowing with victory. He is vibrating and huge with it, a giant in skates and pads. He is glowing like a demigod as he walks across the room, not stopping or pausing and he falls silent staring into Nicke’s eyes.

Nicke thinks, _You did it. We did it._ He can’t escape the sunshine blue of Ovi’s normally stormy eyes, and he doesn’t want to. He wants to reach out and ruffle Ovi’s hair and scream about how happy he is, about how wonderful Ovi is, but he can’t move or speak or even breath, caught in the full force of Ovi’s aura.

Ovi doesn’t stop moving forward, but his shoulders shift and his head lowers and his smile turns from blinding to tender as he becomes smaller, human again but still delighted, like he is 22 and everything is possible. Nicke grins back, as helpless and excited as he was at 20, and he pulls Ovi into his arms and clings, burying his face in the sweat-damp skin of Ovi’s neck as Ovi wraps his arms around his waist and—

It has been eleven years of blown chances and tears and the sickening emptiness of coming up short again and again, but not this time. Not tonight. Tonight the future is endless and he believes again and tonight he is never letting go.

**Author's Note:**

> Come chat with me on Tumblr @ [fourthlinewinger](https://fourthlinewinger.tumblr.com/)


End file.
